Summers In France

June 17th, 2012 by Magdalena Tabor

Suzanne bakes bread

In a crumbling millhouse.

They eat it still warm

Outside on the flagstones.

The scrape of iron chairs

Bringing them closer to table

Under Monet’s vanishing sky.


A chardonnay

From the village market


This peasant’s paradise.

There is nothing to be said

In either language

That a wave of the hand

Can more aptly express.


Let silence be

Your perfect French,


By the evening star.

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